


Homeless Hits a Bit Close

by essenceofmeanin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Homelessness, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-24
Updated: 2007-03-24
Packaged: 2019-01-10 02:16:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12289095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essenceofmeanin/pseuds/essenceofmeanin
Summary: The less glamorous side of hustling and scamming for a living.





	Homeless Hits a Bit Close

**Author's Note:**

> The less glamorous side of hustling and scamming for a living.

Dad’s been gone three days longer than the week he gave them food and money for. Pastor Jim hasn’t heard from him. Neither has Bobby. Dean wishes he had Dad’s journal: enough numbers in there to fill a goddamn phone book, but if he had that, he might as well wish for Dad.

Sammy’s quiet, doodling in his binder instead of doing homework. TV on, playing some stupid cartoon. Dean leaves him with a muttered, “Be back later,” jiggles the knob until it shuts enough to lock.

The sky’s pissing on him, and he hitches up his hoodie against grey October northwest drizzle. They landed in Eugene at the start of the school year and Dean already hates it, hates all the hippies and head-bobbing tweakers stomping around in the shitty weather. He got caught stealing beer the first night Dad was gone at the little mom-n-pop mart down the street, but he doesn’t want to steal today anyway. Bad enough that Dad left them alone, he’s not getting caught again, not gonna leave Sammy alone sitting a cold motel room wondering if his family’s ever coming back, and whether they’ll bring some food if they do.

No. He heads to the rail yard a mile from their block. He checks dumpsters along the way, two restaurants and a Dunkin’ Donuts, but they’re all locked. It takes him a minute to find anyone, weaving his way cautiously over and around the silent hulking trains. His hands are already black from climbing the knuckles that link the cars together when he manages to stumble across two old homebums tucked away behind a bush passing a jug. They don’t say a word, and Dean swipes his hands nervously against his jeans, thinks of Sam.

“You guys know where to get some food around here?” The question comes rough, but it’s out there. They take him in, still quiet, and Dean fidgets under it, hopes they don’t just see some freshly showered kid lookin’ to slum it. His stomach cramps a little, and he swallows.

“Pretty good feed in about half an hour, down at the mission,” one says finally.

“Where?”

He points, and Dean can see it past the trees, it’s so close. He nods his thanks, has to stop himself from jogging there. He stops to pick up a plastic bag from the donut shop to smuggle food out of, and even walking fast he’s there before he knows it. He shoves the bag deep into his inner coat pocket and gets in line.

Dean tries not to breathe too deeply. He hates this with a passion. They’ve only had to go to the free feeds a few times, in the early years before Dad picked up fake credit as free money, and Dean never quite got over seeing his Dad’s face when he realized he couldn’t feed his kids. He knows he’s clenching his jaw. He runs his fingers over the greasy chain link fence, listens to the trains that’ve invaded his dreams every night in Eugene clamor on by. He fingers the knife under his waistband.

They start moving, a low rumble of conversation rising and falling through the line as everybody shuffles inside. His stomach clenches again when he sees roasted chicken under heat lamps, smells it even above the industrial bleach stink of the place. He gives the lady handing out the meat his most sincere smile when he asks for two, and he almost thanks god himself that she falls for it. Corn next. Mashed potatoes. He holds his plate out too long at every stop, catches himself with his mouth hanging open a little; snaps it shut and moves along. He picks up juice in a little paper cup. There’s a woman giving him the eyeball at the dessert spot, so he skips the cookies and heads to the benches.

Dean shovels potatoes into his mouth, winces a little when it hits his belly. You’re not supposed to take food with you, but he slips the chicken breasts under the table, into the plastic bag, and stuffs it back into his coat. He can feel it, hot and wet against his ribs when he moves to drink, and takes a cautious look around to see if anyone noticed. A guy down the table gives him a sad smile. Dean doesn’t know if that’s ‘cause he stole free food, just puts his face back down toward his plate, chews tasteless corn as fast as he can.

A hand lands on his shoulder, and his fingers are at the hilt of his knife before he turns his head. It’s the broad from line that’s been staring.  
  
“Dean? You’re Dean, right?” He stares up at her, his mouth twisting. She looks suddenly uncertain.

“I’m Ms. Bell, I teach English at Jefferson Middle. I’ve seen you pick your brother up after classes…”

He pulls himself out of her grasp, growls, “Lady, you got the wrong guy.”

She sighs softly, like she expected it. “Where’s Sam, Dean?”

Dean stands jerkily upward, fast enough that she startles back. The corners of her mouth tug down, and she tries one more time, “I’d like to help if you’ll let,” soft enough that he barely hears it as he stalks away.

He runs smack into somebody right outside the door, almost takes the dude down he’s going so fast. The guy smiles up at him, Dean’s hands on his shoulders to steady them both. He’s not much older than Dean, but he’s got that soft churchy look about him that Dean expected out of a place like this.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be done eating this fast. I was waiting, uh… do you need any clothes?” He says all this in one quick breath; maybe it’s his first time being this nice to a stranger. Dean eyes him fast, weighs Mrs. Whatever back there calling CPS on his negligent ass versus clean stuff. He gives a half-grin back.

“Any socks?”

Dean gets a wide-eyed beam in return, like a sunlamp switching on. “Oh yeah, we have socks! Follow me!” and he does.  
  
They climb the stairs, and there’s a closet spilling over with clothes. The guy – Phil – presses packs of socks on him, hoodies, and even underwear in all different sizes when he asks. Dean feels his throat working on a thank you, really he does, but all he manages is an embarrassed smile before he backs down the stairs like an idiot.

There’s a pile of bread loaves stacked by the door on a foldout table, and Dean grabs three of them before he half bolts out the door, stuffing everything into the Safeway bag with the clothes. Sandwiches, sandwiches, sammiches, he thinks, grinning to himself. They’ve still got half a jar of mayo at home, and Sammy’ll love it.

Dean picks his way across the railroad tracks , skittering across the rocks draining rainwater into the ground. He jogs the mile home, wipes sweat off his forehead.

The Impala’s in the lot when he rounds the corner, and he almost drops their newfound bounty all over the pavement. He does drop his keys before he can get them in the lock, shoulders his way inside.

Dad and Sam are sitting motionless at the kitchen table, their heads buried in their arms. Dad’s ring glints next to the scar on his cheek. Dad raises his head as Dean pulls up short, nearly skidding right through the salt ring. He clears his throat, and Dean can hear him swallow dry all the way across the room.  
  
“Where’ve you been?”  
  
Dean ignores the obvious, swallows down any urge to scream at him. Pulls up a chair. Flicks Sam on the ear, and smirks when his little brother lifts his face blearily toward the light.  
  
“I got chicken, guys,” and plops the bag onto the table. His Dad smiles wearily.

“Good. We’re pretty hungry, aren’t we, kiddo?” he says, and Sam reaches out.


End file.
